A Troll by Any Other Name
by Mister Slade
Summary: There's a troll loose in Skyrim, and no one is safe. Ch. 1 - Vilkas and Farkas decide to have a drink at the Bannered Mare for a change, but things get a little tense when they discover there's a troll inside.


_AN – Credit goes to Miss Violet for this gem of an idea. I hope I wrote it to your specifications._

Two Werewolves and a Troll Walk Into a Bar...

It had been quite some time since the twins had gone out for a round of drinks at the Bannered Mare. Usually, they quenched their thirst right at home in the mead hall of Jorrvaskr, but tonight, Vilkas was looking for a change from their normal routine, and he did not wish to drink alone.

"Boys, welcome!" Hulda called as they entered. "Have a seat anywhere you'd like. Just stoked the fire."

The two Companions nodded in unison and took a seat before the fire, their backs to the bar. Beside Farkas, Mikael strummed away on his lute. Across from him was Sinmir, looking as burly and as intoxicated as ever, and beside Sinmir and across from Vilkas was...something neither Vilkas nor Farkas had ever seen before.

There was a short, black table there, placed over top of the bench, with its thin, metal legs straddling either side. Vilkas couldn't consider it a desk, as it seemed much too flimsy and breakable to be anything other than a poorly crafted table. On its surface was a flat, almost square piece of shiny black metal – daedric perhaps? It was upright and a soft glow emanated from the other side of it.

Before the table was the strangest chair either of the twins had ever seen before. It it had back support and a place for one's bum, as most chairs had, but the back piece was held up by a long neck, and beneath it, in place of regular chair legs, it had man-made limbs that stretched outward – it recalled to Vilkas' mind an image of the Star of Azura he had once seen in a book, only the chair's legs looked like the star laid on its side and with small wheels on the tips of the its points.

Sitting in this odd chair was an even odder sight. It was a man...at least, Vilkas thought he could be considered a man. He was thicker and softer-looking than most, probably from a life of luxury somewhere in Cyrodiil as the son of a Count or some type of noble. He looked as though he hadn't worked a day in his life, having thick, fat fingers that appeared to have no callouses, no weapons at his hips or back, and a deep frown on his face that demanded attention.

A milk-drinker if he ever saw one.

"What can I get for you?" came a voice to his left.

Vilkas tore his gaze away from the bizarre scene and looked up at the Redguard woman beside him. "I'll have an ale."

"Same as him," Farkas said to her, and the woman hurried off with a nod to fetch their drinks.

The man across from them mumbled something under his breath and brought his hands to the thin, flat metal device on the table. He began tapping his fingers behind it, but there was no organization to the sound – not like one would tap out a song beside them on a bench.

Vilkas exchanged glances with his brother, whom had the same expression he did: a medley of curiosity and annoyance.

"This isn't believable at all," the man grumbled. "Description is poorly written."

"Excuse me?" Vilkas asked, trying to keep the calm in his tone from faltering.

The man looked up at Vilkas and pursed his lips. "You like run-on sentences."

"Are you lookin' for a fight?" Farkas asked. He started to stand, but Vilkas stopped him with his arm out and shook his head.

"Dialogue isn't substantial."

Vilkas cleared his throat and rose to his feet. "Allow me, brother."

The man stopped the tapping sounds as Vilkas walked around the fire to stand beside him. At first, his ice-blue eyes were trained only on him, as a predator would its prey. But then Vilkas saw what the man had been tapping on, and he froze.

There was a picture-image on the flat piece of metal, connected to another piece the same size and shape that featured letters and numbers across it. The picture on the flat of metal was nothing other than words organized to form a story – essentially, Vilkas was staring at an otherworldly book. He was astonished.

He caught his name spelled out in the middle of a paragraph halfway down and glared.

"What sorcery is this?" he demanded, slamming his hand down on the table.

"You have a fixation with the 'enter' key," the man said, his face contorted in arrogance.

"I'm going to ask you one more time. _What...is...this?_"

"A mockery of literacy."

It happened so fast. Vilkas sent his fist crashing into the man's mouth as hard as he could. The man was punched clear off his seat, and he landed in a limp heap like a ragdoll. At the same time, the Redguard woman dropped their drinks, a look of shock on her scarred face, and Mikael abruptly stopped playing.

Farkas burst into a line of raucous laughter, slapping his thigh and pointing at the unconscious man on the floor with the other hand. Vilkas, at first embarrassed by his own temper, slowly started smiling. He had to admit, it was pretty funny.

And damn, did it feel good to do that.


End file.
